


Hyacinths

by gaygreaser



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Trials of Apollo - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Cheesy, Drama & Romance, Hero Worship, M/M, POV Third Person, Reference to Daphne, Romance, Tragedy, i feel like ive posted it somewhere before but, i wrote this literally two years ago and just found it on my google drive, oh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23953021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaygreaser/pseuds/gaygreaser
Summary: In which the Greek god Apollo is desperately in love with a mortal.
Relationships: Apollo/Hyacinthus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 82





	Hyacinths

“Why did you choose me?”

The sun isn’t up right now, the moon barely peeking out from behind the polluted sky. Apollo lets out a loud, contented sigh, a hand on his lover’s thigh, squeezing it with an unusually tender grip. He’s a god, after all. Tenderness is not always in their nature, but Apollo can’t help it. Everything his sweet love does grips his heart, makes him feel so alive. It’s quite rare, to feel alive. He’s spent centuries simply existing, showing off, taking care of his sister and his cows, trying to find someone who loves him unconditionally and fully.

“How could I not?” is Apollo’s reply. His voice is hoarse, and he clears his throat quietly, hand still on the thigh. Really...how could he not love this extraordinary being? His lover’s face shines like that of a god, though Apollo would deny thinking this if anyone asked. Even if his darling disrespected him, broke down his temples, screamed at him, Apollo wouldn’t say a word, much less curse his love eternally. How very strange...a mortal reducing Apollo to this broken version of himself.

“I am nothing but a mortal,” his lover says gently. “I wonder how I can possibly be of such value to you.”

“Am I not important to you as well?” implores Apollo.

“Of course you are, but — I am so ordinary. Just another mortal among thousands. I would not call myself the most handsome mortal, either.”

“Ah…” Apollo mutters. “You are so modest, my prince.” It’s ridiculous. Apollo doesn’t think he’s ever set eyes on a mortal like Hyacinth. “Even if you were not as beautiful as you are, you would amaze me. I’m not so shallow that I cannot appreciate who you are.”

“I don’t understand,” says his Hyacinth quietly. He looks up, looks Apollo in the eyes. “You gods are so peculiar.” He suddenly seems to remember that he’s talking to a god and his eyes widen as he vigorously apologizes.

Apollo can’t help but watch the way he moves as he stutters out phrases like “I’m sorry, Lord Apollo,” and “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.” It’s earth shatteringly beautiful. His dark hair is much prettier than dark hair ever has the right to be. Apollo finally decides to put a stop to his apologies. It’s unnecessary. 

“Hyacinth,” he says, slipping a hand through his lover’s hair. “Even if you were to call me the ugliest, least talented god alive, I would be hopelessly in love with you. I am quite inclined to worship you sometimes. Mortals are nothing to us gods most of the time — you are different.” He breathes out deeply. “I think I would tear the world apart for you.”

“You remember I am mortal?” Hyacinthus says worriedly. “Apollo, I am not immortal as you are. I could die at any moment.”

“Yes,” says Apollo heavily. “Do not think I forget.”

“But I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it?” Hyacinth says, staring into the sky, face weary but still astounding. “You will move on. You have done so time and time again, and you will do so again. I do not blame you,” he adds worriedly, as if scared that Apollo will misunderstand. “I would as well if I were immortal and you were a mere mortal lover. Though it would be very difficult to move on from  _ you _ ,” he says quietly, seeming almost as if he doesn’t want Apollo to hear his confession.

Apollo is so, so in love with this man.

A breeze coming from the West washes over the two of them and Hyacinth shivers. 

“Sweet Hyacinth,” Apollo says. It makes him feel good to say his lover’s name. He doesn’t think it will ever get old. It never gets old to say Daphne either. He doesn’t remember most of his loves, but Daphne is quite the exception. He still wears his laurel wreath everyday, and there’s still the odd ache in his heart whenever he thinks of her.

When he looks at Hyacinth, his heart near explodes. He wants to do something to keep him forever, love him forever, have him love Apollo forever; he can’t stand the thought of this boy ever leaving the world, leaving him like Daphne did; he is the god of prophecy and he hates that he can’t see into his future with his lover. It seems almost as though every time he falls in love, he is unable to know what will happen with the two of them. What’s the point of being the god of prophecy, then? It’s a foolish way of thinking, he knows, there is more to life than love but whenever he looks at Hyacinth, he thinks that his love might be his life. A mortal, his life? It’s laughable. He’s so vulnerable, it hurts.

“Sweet Hyacinth,” he repeats, a dull throbbing in his head. “I adore you beyond I have ever adored most. I have had other memorable loves, but the majority cannot hold a candle to you. No matter whether I move on or not, I will never forget you, my beautiful prince. I am being sincere and open with you...you could use it against me. This is terrifying, but I do not care. If you were to leave me, I would let you go peacefully, but it would be the most painful thing in the world to me. I would forbid anyone from hurting you — you would be breaking me but I would sooner give up my immortality than hurt you.”

Hyacinth stares at him, in a state of dreamy shock, and Apollo glances away, scared of himself and of his lover. “You do love me with all of your heart,” he muses, leaning into Apollo’s shoulder. “You...truly are bizarre, Apollo. But you are wonderful as well...if only all the gods were like you, I think the world would be an amazing sort of place.”

“Don’t think me so kind hearted,” Apollo says with a tired sort of laugh. “I’ve done so much bad you would not know of. And, my Hyacinth, I don’t want to tell you. Tainting your innocence is something only the devil would dream of doing.”

“You think of me as pure,” Hyacinth observes, head still on Apollo’s shoulder as he glances up. “Like I am incapable of doing wrong.”

Apollo snorts. “My love, it is not that you are incapable of doing wrong...simply that I have done so much wrong that anything you may have done seems angelic.”

“I stole my father’s most prized belonging in order to make myself look more beautiful, once,” he blurts out, and his eyes are wide as if he thinks Apollo might curse him eternally for this wrongdoing.

Instead, Apollo’s love for him intensifies exponentially. His heart is so full of sheer love and longing for his mortal boyfriend, he doesn’t have any idea how to express his words. Instead, he groans, a sound akin to a dying animal (Apollo would know. His sister kills a lot of animals). “You have destroyed me, Hyacinth,” he groans finally. “Your sheer existence makes me feel so fortunate to be me. I wonder how this is possible.”

“I am not sure either, Apollo,” Hyacinthus says, voice filled with wonder. “I believe that I should be the one to feel fortunate — the kindest god of all is sincerely in love with  _ me _ ...a simple Spartan prince...it is like a tale.”

They speak for hours, until early morning. Hyacinth’s face, bathed in sunlight, is a sight Apollo is beyond grateful to lay witness to. The mortal man squints towards the sun. 

“Apollo,” he says, a humorous expression on his face. “Are you capable of lowering the brightness of the sun?”

Apollo opens his mouth to respond seriously, before understanding that his love was joking with him. It’s quite rare. Hyacinth rarely shows the god his light hearted side, likely too scared of offending Apollo. Apollo wishes Hyacinth would realize that Apollo could never get offended by him. If it was anyone else, anything and everything could potentially offend Apollo, but when it comes to Hyacinth, he feels far removed from whom he usually is.

“Of course,” Apollo says, playing along. “But on one condition.”

“What would that be?” Hyacinth says, grinning. Apollo finds it to be blinding, gorgeous, far more stunning than the sun.

Apollo doesn’t respond in words, instead tugging Hyacinth closer, marvelling at his long eyelashes and deep eyes, before grabbing his neck and kissing him. Hyacinthus lets out a content, happy sigh into Apollo’s mouth.

When Apollo finally pulls away, Hyacinth looks at him as though he just crafted the world with his hands. “You are magical, Apollo,” Hyacinth says shakily. “I love you.”

Apollo touches the laurel wreath on his head, hating himself for it immediately afterwards. This is not a time to think of Daphne and how Daphne never loved him. He should be entirely grateful; maybe he would have never met Hyacinthus if Daphne loved him back. It’s hard to forget about Daphne, though. She was such a beautiful nymph, even if she never loved him. 

He pushes Daphne to the back of his mind and embraces Hyacinth, whispering sweet nothings in his lover’s ear until he’s weak in the knees and they’re both weak in the knees and they’re kissing, and they’re kissing, and they’re kissing.

It isn’t until halfway through the day that they do something productive. Apollo had just asked whether Hyacinthus is good at the discus throw. Hyacinthus had nodded excitedly, cracking his knuckles, which naturally melted Apollo’s heart. Either way, he’d challenged his lover to a discus throwing competition.

“Do you happen to have one lying around?” Hyacinth had asked cheekily, which Apollo responded to by going to Mount Olympus to get one.

When Apollo returns, Hyacinth is waiting, hair tucked behind one of his slightly pointy ears, hand under his chin. He has a dreamy smile on; Apollo takes a moment to admire his lover’s face and body. Hyacinth’s body...it doesn’t rival Apollo’s, but Apollo is a  _ god _ . Hyacinth is a mortal, and his body is one of the prettiest that Apollo has ever seen on a mortal, all muscular and lean and...it distracts Apollo, makes him want to kiss his lover again and not ever let go, but he can’t do that. He has responsibilities. One of which is resisting his boyfriend’s charm.

“So,” Apollo says with a distinct smirk as he holds up the discus. “Would you like to start, my love?”

Hyacinth smirks straight back, grabbing the discus out of Apollo’s hand. He bends his knees as he holds the discus. Then he throws it into the air.

It’s a while before the discus returns.

“Impressive for a mortal,” Apollo congratulates. He rubs his hands together, taking the discus for himself, throws it up — it takes a long, long time to return to them.

“This is not a fair competition,” declares Hyacinth, his cheeks tinged with a very slight red.

“Who ever said it was fair?” says Apollo, lightly kissing him as he hands the discus to the mortal. “Us gods aren’t fair all the time.”

Hyacinth opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. Then he closes it. He throws the discus; it is a terrible throw, returning almost immediately.

“I thought you were good at the discus throw,” Apollo teases. “What happened to that, Hyacinthus?”

“I am,” Hyacinth says, voice tinged with annoyance. “Among the mortals, I am the best I know.”

“Well, I do not doubt that,” Apollo says gently. “I was joking, my Hyacinth.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hyacinth replies, eyebrows knitting together. “I did not mean to sound disrespectful.”

“It’s  _ okay, _ Hyacinth,” Apollo says, exasperated. “Here, allow me to throw the discus once again.”

Hyacinthus looks determined to impress Apollo now. When the god of music throws the discus into the heavens, Hyacinth chases after it as it plummets back to Earth. He looks as though he’s about to catch it. 

And then a light breeze comes from the West.

The discus veers direction, strays away from Hyacinthus’ outstretched hands and lodges itself in his heart. Apollo, sensing something wrong, runs over to see the problem. As he arrives, Hyacinthus falls straight onto his knees.

“My love?” Apollo whispers. He stares at the discus that struck his lover in the heart. “How?” he demands quietly, before his voice escalates, a loud, angry, “HOW?” making its way out of his mouth. He holds Hyacinth in his arms. “My love, can you say something? Anything?” He tries, in a fit of panic, to heal his lover, but he can tell that Hyacinthus is beyond repair, he is dying. 

“Apollo,” Hyacinth says, cracking a smile. “You said you would not forget me...is that true?”

“I won’t — I won’t let you die,” Apollo says desperately, scrambling through his head for something, anything that can heal this man. “I can’t let you die.” He grabs onto Hyacinth’s shoulders, close to tears. “Please stay alive. Please stay alive. Don’t leave me,” he says. “Don’t leave me like she did — like all of them did...please.” A tear slips down Apollo’s cheek.

“I’m honored,” Hyacinth says, voice quiet and humble. “To be so important to you, Lord Apollo.”

“Don’t call me that,” Apollo responds automatically, watching blood spill from Hyacinth. “I do not ever want to be anything but your Apollo.”

“Oh, my Apollo,” Hyacinth says. “You are quite wonderful.” His dark hair shimmers as he falls onto his back, coughing up blood, dying, and then abruptly...he’s dead. Nothing changes in the world. The grass does not wilt; the universe does not collapse on itself; the Spartan mortal dies, and the Earth continues to turn.

“Do not touch him, Hades,” hisses Apollo towards the ground, sure Hades will hear it down in the Underworld. "Do not touch his soul." Apollo watches as Hyacinth bleeds out, and he has a sudden idea, transforming the blood his love sheds into a flower prettier than Apollo’s ever seen before.

And then he weeps.

He cries until he can hardly breathe, the tears staining his newly made flowers. He cries, wallowing in his grief, he screams, throwing something akin to a temper tantrum, and then he pounds his hands against the ground.

“Why?” he shouts out loud. “Why him? Why did you not take someone else, Death? It was not his time to die yet! He deserved to live for years ahead!” He takes a deep breath, staring at his flower, wiping his tears furiously.

The god Zephyrus appears, arms crossed. Apollo knows he must look rather like a mess, crouched on the floor, tears staining his face as he admires a flower.

“Hello, Apollo,” Zephyrus says.

“You…” Apollo thinks for a moment. “Zephyr...god of the West Wind.”

“Correct.” Zephyr laughs mockingly. “I would list all  _ your _ godly powers, but we would be here all night. Maybe that is why he chose you instead of me. You...an  _ important _ god...an Olympian...minor god Zephyros cannot compete with that.”

“What do you mean?” snarls Apollo, getting to his feet.

“I was in love with that mortal of yours as well, you know,” Zephyr muses. “He is quite charming. And beautiful. I have never seen a mortal so beautiful.”

“Are you talking about Hyacinthus?” Apollo says, hands falling to his sides. “You? In love with my Hyacinth?”

“Your Hyacinth,” Zephyr repeats in a monotone. “I killed your Hyacinth.”

Apollo does not do anything for a moment, hands limp at his sides. Then slowly, deliberately, he reaches for his bow and arrow, seemingly forgetting in his state of emotional pain, that Zephyr is just as immortal as he is.

Before he can take into his hands his bow and arrow, Zephyr disappears, swift as the wind. Of course, Apollo is capable of hitting any target anywhere in the world, but he feels far too empty inside to try to avenge his sweet boyfriend. 

He sits down again, and cries some more. At one point, he inscribes onto the flower the two Greek letters for a word: “Alas!” 

“My youthful, kind Hyacinthus,” Apollo cries. “I am so sorry.” He gathers Hyacinth’s head into his lap, leaning down and giving his bleeding lover a final kiss. “I would have done anything to keep you alive — anything...I would have given up anything at all.” His face is etched with lines of sorrow. “Hyacinth, I would have even given up you. I would have let Zephyrus have you. I would have let you go.” He presses his lips together. “If I’d only known…”

He howls again in agony, pressing his forehead against Hyacinth’s. “I love you. I love you. I love you.” He repeats it over and over until the words are bouncing around his own head. “I am sorry...oh, my love,” he says. He finally removes his lover from his lap, letting the dead body sit there on the hard ground. He looks finally at the flower again, where Hyacinth’s soul is contained.

“You asked me not to forget you,” says Apollo to the flower. “If I may make a request in return...never forget me, my love.”

Then he disappears, determined to escape the pain.

The hyacinth becomes known worldwide as a popular new flower, but only Artemis, who Apollo tells, knows where they come from. Artemis, who usually treats Apollo as one might treat a mosquito or an annoying younger sibling (which, in all fairness, is exactly what Apollo is), listens sympathetically. Apollo knows she does not truly understand, being a maiden goddess who has never experienced such a whirlwind romance, but he appreciates his sister making an effort to care about him.

“I am so unlucky in love,” despairs Apollo. “Why is it that everyone is able to fall in love with one person and stay with them eternally?”

“You were never going to stay with him eternally,” Artemis reminds him gently. “He is mortal, after all.”

“I offered him immortality a long time ago,” Apollo says heavily. “He said that he would consider it, yet he died before he was able to make a decision.”

Artemis’ voice is strange when she speaks again. “Brother...you offered this mortal lover of yours immortality?”

“He was so extraordinary,” Apollo says, and leaves it at that.

He wants to cry again, but he doesn’t think there are any more tears in him. The last time he cried so much was because of Daphne, Daphne turning into a tree so he would leave her alone, Daphne never loving him back…

But Hyacinth. Hyacinth loved him back dearly. Hyacinth was a precious sort of treasure, something rare. And now he is gone forever, never to return, mortal fragility getting the best of him.

Oh…maybe Apollo does have some tears left in him to shed.

“The Spartans will miss their prince,” he says, half speaking to himself and half speaking to Artemis. “And I will miss my love.”

He breaks down again, right there and then. He wants to go scream at Zephyrus, maybe inflict him with a deadly plague, but he remembers finally that the god of the West Wind is a god too. Apollo doubts that his curses would affect a god. He could infect all the god’s mortal followers, though. He contemplates the plan, ready to put it into action, but…

Somewhere in his heart, he feels that the kind, empathetic Hyacinthus would not approve of him killing innocent mortals just for worshipping the jealous god of the West Wind.

“I am sorry, Apollo,” Artemis says sadly. “I want to help you, but I cannot.”

Apollo sends her a small, watery smile. “I know,” he reassures her. A moment later: “I am being pathetic right now, am I not?”

“You are crying over a dead mortal,” Artemis says. “I would not say pathetic, but. You should calm down, brother. Remember that you are a god.”

“Yes,” Apollo says. “A god.”

It takes several decades before he can hear the name Hyacinthus without cringing. But as with Daphne, he never fully moves on. He eternally remembers his kind lover, and he holds a grudge against Zephyrus. Apollo has lots of mortal flings, none as stunning as Hyacinth was, and he is unlucky in love over and over again.

No one impacts him as hard as Hyacinth or Daphne, and through the centuries, Apollo keeps coming back to Hyacinth’s question that night as they lay under the half hidden moon:  _ “Why did you choose me?” _

He isn’t even fully sure of the answer himself. Yes, Hyacinth was beautiful, but had he been nothing but aesthetically pleasing, Apollo would have left after the sex. That was what they did as gods when they were in love with the mortal’s face, not the personality; they feigned affection, they fucked, they left.

There must have been something more to Hyacinth. He was kind — but a lot of mortals were. He was modest, but the majority of people Apollo made love to harbored some sort of modesty. Everyone feels modest when they look at Apollo, because no one compares. They never display their arrogance, knowing that he is the only one with a full license to brag about his looks.

Maybe it was that Hyacinth was not modest or kind for Apollo’s sake. Maybe the reason Apollo loved Hyacinth so much was because he had been naturally good, a true prince.

“Sweet Hyacinth,” Apollo says aloud to himself one day as he drives the sun across the sky. “I have not forgotten you. To be entirely honest, I do not think I ever will.”

He drives his chariot over a field of hyacinths.

**Author's Note:**

> (((pretty sure i wrote this in french class in my freshman year of high school which i believe is honestly peak productivity
> 
> only posted it now to procrastinate continuing the iliad because agamemnon is really stressing me out atm
> 
> anyways hope you enjoyed! please leave a comment if you did. comments are my ambrosia)))


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